Whores
by Cherry Champagne
Summary: Pillow talk with Kenny and The Mole.


"Why do you keep your parka on?"

"Because I want to."

The Mole gives me one of his unreadable expressions. His gaze drops to my naked body below the orange seam of my jacket, kneeling on his scuffed pink sheets. There's no lust on his face; I wish sometimes he'd show he wanted me, that he'd sweat a little. It's only once he has me that he shows any energy. I'm not used to having to do so much of the work.

But God if he doesn't get me going.

He's sitting on the edge of his mussed up bed, tearing off strips of duct tape and patching up the holes in his brown cargos. He looks so fucking hardcore—at any given time, more bloodied up than even me, because he doesn't come back good as new every couple days, with his browned skin and teeth bared around a close-burned fag. Even that tarty French accent seems manly in his voice. I guess I should be pickier; mention any kid I know and I can tell you something about them I can think about when I jack off. But Mole, man, he just piles the hotness on.

And I got him. I have no idea how; who knew he'd be as easy as me? If anything I thought he'd be the repressed, overly anti-sexual type. But after a couple of well-placed remarks and over-the-top kitschy body language in the flat bed of his truck (which matched its owner spectacularly,) and he emotionlessly submitted. And we fucked. And we drove to his house, to his dank, propaganda-ridden room, and we fucked again. And it was GOOD. And he let me keep my parka on, like I like, and when I asked nice, bit me around the collarbone.

Even as he's patching up his pants, in just his weird pink elephant boxers, underneath the brown cloth is his shovel, always at hand. I wish I had something that dependant. Even my friends can't seem to remember me half the time. I guess I'll always have death right there with arms wide open.

"Have you ever killed anyone?" I ask as I shift to lie down on my back with my chin in the air, head titled to see his back. The view is not bad.

"Of course."

"Really? How many?"

"At least a 'undred, I suppose." He holds up the pants, letting gravity unfold them, and apparently sees another area in need of patching, because he goes back to ripping off pieces of duct tape.

"Wow, really? Is it hard?"

He lifts one calloused hand, palm up, like he's holding a tray, in an archaic sort of shrug. "'umans are more fragile zan zey believe zey are." Heh.

"I mean, emotionally. You don't feel anything?"

"Do you still feel emotions for each person you fuck?"

I feel my body stiffen. There was definite intent behind that statement. The Mole kills like I hump. At least a 'undred. "Yes." I lie, with an uncontrollable immature "so there" tone in my voice.

"Really." Damn it, does he have to know everything? "I do what I am paid to do. I am just doing things the customer cannot do for zemselves."

"You sound like a whore."

"Maybe I am."

I try to read his face, but as always, he just has that vaguely-pissed off, vaguely uninterested look. I suddenly don't want to talk anymore. But I don't really want to leave, either.

I stumble across the mattress to his end and carelessly push my padded chest up against his bare back, resting my hands on his shoulders. My mouth is close enough to breathe on his ear. "C'mon, enough pillow talk."

He carefully puts down the pants and the roll of duct tape on the floor (real romantic,) and turns to me, his sun-colored face inches from mine. He fingers his shovel like it's an extension of himself. I'm no Freud, but if I were I would have a lot to say about that shovel.

I slide onto the floor, up on my knees so that we're still on the same level. His mouth is mechanical, open slightly to let tongue poke through, beyond that no identifying tendencies. Fine. Do as you please, Mole, as long as it takes me where I want to go.

He slides back on the bed, so that he's lying on his back with his legs still on the ground. I move to follow, but in a flash of brown the shovel is gone from his lap and there's a searing pain in the back of my head. Everything turns white, then black.

What?

With a dream-like feeling as colors begin to return I see the red and grey spattered on the wall. With a wet splat, something hits the floor. Warmth is sliding down my forehead.

"As I said, I am only doing as I am told." He lifts the shovel again, this time preparing for an overhand hit.

There's no expression on his face.

SPLAT.

--

A/N: What the hell is this? I don't know, I drew a picture of Kenny with his brains spattered out, and I drew The Mole behind him with his shovel, and I was too lazy to draw clothes on either, and for some reason before I knew it it was a story and it had a gun pointed to my head…I'm so sorry. You can never get these minutes back. ;-; And still I have the gall to ask for reviews. Please? Please? (BTW, why the fuck would anyone out a hit on Kenny? Uh...a woman scorned, mebe. I dunno.)


End file.
